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Its ruffled bosom wherethrough the wind sings
Till the crisped petals are loosened and strown

Overblown, on the sand;
Shed, curling as dead

Rose-leaves curl, on the flecked strand.
Or higher, holier, saintlier when, as now,

All nature sacerdotal seems, and thou.
The calm hour strikes on yon golden gong,

In tones of floating and mellow light
A spreading summons to even-song:

See how there
The cowled night

Kneels on the Eastern sanctuary-stair.
What is this feel of incense everywhere?

Clings it round folds of the blanch-amiced clouds,
Upwafted by the solemn thurifer,

The mighty spirit unknown,
That swingeth the slow earth before the embannered

Throne?
Or is't the Season under all these shrouds

Of light, and sense, and silence, makes her known
A presence everywhere,

An inarticulate prayer,
A hand on the soothed tresses of the air?

But there is one hour scant
Of this Titanian, primal liturgy;

As there is but one hour for me and thee,
Autumn, for thee and thine hierophant,

Of this grave ending chant.
Round the earth still and stark

Heaven's death-lights kindle, yellow spark by spark,
Beneath the dreadful catafalque of the dark.

And I had ended there:
But a great wind blew all the stars to flare,

And cried, "I sweep the path before the moon!
Tarry ye now the coming of the moon,

For she is coming soon;"
Then died before the coming of the moon.

And she came forth upon the trepidant air,
In vesture unimagined-fair,

Woven as woof of flag-lilies;
And curdled as of flag-lilies

The vapour at the feet of her,
And a haze about her tinged in fainter wise.

As if she had trodden the stars in press,
Till the gold wine spurted over her dress,

Till the gold wine gushed out round her feet;
Spouted over her stained wear,

And bubbled in golden froth at her feet,
And hung like a whirlpool's mist round her.

Still, mighty Season, do I see't,
Thy sway is still majestical!

Thou hold'st of God, by title sure,
Thine indefeasible investiture,

And that right round thy locks are native to;
The heavens upon thy brow imperial,

This huge terrene thy ball,
And o'er thy shoulders thrown wide air's depending pall.

What if thine earth be blear and bleak of hue?
Still, still the skies are sweet!

Still, Season, still thou hast thy triumphs there!
How have I, unaware,

Forgetful of my strain inaugural,
Cleft the great rondure of thy reign complete,

Yielding thee half, who hast indeed the all?
I will not think thy sovereignty begun

But with the shepherd sun
That washes in the sea the stars' gold fleeces

Or that with day it ceases,
Who sets his burning lips to the salt brine,

And purples it to wine;
While I behold how ermined Artemis

Ordained weed must wear,
And toil thy business;

Who witness am of her,
Her too in autumn turned a vintager;

And, laden with its lamped clusters bright,
The fiery-fruited vineyard of this night.

THE HOUND OF HEAVEN
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes, I sped;
And shot, precipitated

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat--and a Voice beat

More instant than the Feet -
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,

Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,

Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside)

But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to

Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their changed bars;

Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.

I said to dawn: Be sudden--to eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous Lover!
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!

I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,

In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.

But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;

Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:-
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,

And a Voice above their beat -
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that, after which I strayed,
In face of man or maid;

But still within the little children's eyes
Seems something, something that replies,

THEY at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;

But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,

Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's--share

With me" (said I) "your delicatefellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,

Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning

With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting

With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured dais,

Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice

Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.'
So it was done:

I in their delicatefellowship was one -
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.

I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;

I knew how the clouds arise
Spumed of the wild sea-snortings;

All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with--made them shapers

Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine -
With them joyed and was bereaven.

I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers

Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.

I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,

And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart

I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;

But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.

For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak -

THEIR sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;

Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me

The breasts o' her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless

My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,

With unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed majestic instancy

And past those noised Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet -

"Lo! naughtcontents thee, who content'st not Me."
Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!

My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee;

I am defenceless utterly,
I slept, methinks, and woke,

And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,

I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,

I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years -
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,


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